The Night of the Lament
by penstroker
Summary: Artie ponders his actions from the episode The Night of the Death Masks.


Note: This is set during the evening after the events in TNOT Death Masks and contains spoilers for that episode. I do not own "The Wild Wild West" or any of its characters.

The Night of the Lament

I killed my partner today.

With my own two hands, the very ones that now pen this journal entry, I loaded the hunk of lead that was shot into the noblest of all men, James West. I accomplished what many even more capable than myself had attempted many times over without success.

For the eternity of seconds that followed my discovery, I stood shattered, emotions welling from deep within, knowing the act I had committed would haunt me for whatever brief time I had left in this mortal coil. By my rash actions, I had jeopardized not only my future, but possibly that of my own beloved country, by depriving her of her most worthy and avid defender.

How cruel that James West's life was cut short by the very one who had sworn to protect it, yea even valued it above his very own. Heart break is indeed the most exquisite of pains.

Although it was not even a scant minute that I had to suffer through the agony of believing that I had killed my best friend, the discovery that Jim still lived only relieved part of my torment. I am still haunted by that moment, replaying it time and time again inside my tortured mind. I pointed a rifle at my partner and pulled the trigger, aiming to kill. At that range, I can only ascribe it as divine intervention that I totally missed him. Could my heart have seen what my eyes could not?

From across the room, my eyes flit over to him. How can he sit serenely reading the newspaper while I anguish over the uncertainty I have caused in our partnership? Can he still trust me to watch over him, behind him and out for him as he rushes headlong into our next dangerous assignment?

At a twinge from my wound, I purse my lips and blow out a quiet stream of breath. If Jim perceives any signs of my discomfort it will interrupt this easy peace that has dispersed throughout the parlor.

Hearing the paper rustle, I look up only to find my gaze locking with his, brown eyes meeting green. He voices the concern with his eyes that he dares not with his lips. I wave him off with a practiced, yet forced smile and lower my head back into my writing. I am caught between a rock and a hard place: yearning to find the solace I seek in Morpheus' arms or quell the anxiousness of my own heart by continuing to stay within my partner's presence.

So intent am I in finishing this account that I fail to comprehend the peril I am in until a shadow falls across the page. Steeling myself for the inevitable confrontation, I smiled up into the face of my exasperated colleague. Balancing himself with a walking stick, he has still managed to creep up on me without a sound. In one hand he purposefully juggled the bottle of pills our doctor had prescribed for our injured legs.

"You need one of these?" queries Jim, one eyebrow arched sardonically.

I try to smother a gasp as the hot poker of pain returned to my wounded limb. Unceremoniously, he grasps my palm and dumps two tablets into it. I stare at them wondering if the relief they promise will be worth the payment they would exact from me.

Prior to my partner's interference, I had stubbornly refused any medication, knowing their sleep inducing properties. I was anxious to delay the myriad of nightmares that will chase me into slumber tonight. It is not the nightmares themselves that I dread as much as the pity that I fear I will see in Jim's face when my unrest awakens him from his much needed sleep.

Jim hobbles to the table and returns with a glass of water. "Artie," he begins again focusing his intense gaze on my down-turned face, "just because I haven't needed any pain medicine is no reason for you to deprive yourself of them. You need to get some rest so you can heal properly and return to work. Do you want me to have to tackle the next assignment by myself?"

It was a low blow that my partner had inflicted on me, knowing that nothing terrified me as much as the possibility that in my absence, the nightmare of his death might become a reality. Sighing resignedly, I swallow the pain killers, muttering a weary "thanks" as he limps back to his chair.

I can feel his attention still drawn to me as he settles back in his seat and his hand hovers over the discarded newspaper. He has noticed my reticence tonight, but normal conversation has been beyond my ability to sustain. As my pain begins to abate, my thoughts grow hazy. The medicine is stealing me away from the present and will force me to relive this most painful past day.

As I close this entry, I thank whatever heavenly entity has seen fit to keep us together as long and as unscathed as we have been. I am hoping that by voicing these sentiments on paper, rather than burdening my taciturn partner with uncomfortable emotions, that the true healing can begin. I can only pray that by tomorrow my acting skills are up to the task of convincing him that everything is back to normal. It will be the role of a lifetime played to the most perceptive audience I have ever faced, but if the end result returns us to our normal equilibrium, it will be worth every sacrifice I choose to make.


End file.
